Enticement
by Tainted Apple
Summary: It wasn't her fault she was the object of his craving that showery nightfall. Screamshipping - well, sort of.


**Entice; **_**— vb**_

_** ( tr ) to attract or draw towards oneself by exciting hope or desire; tempt; allure**_

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**Darkness** was a different thing in the north woods than it was in the city. He had forgotten.

The girl was invisible – no more than a ghost under the midnight sky – but he knew she was there, very close to him. He clutched her warm wrist in his hand. Her breathing was soft and measured; she was calm. Her perfume, her unique scent, always familiar to him, filled his nostrils again. A lingering, unusual essence of spring flowers. Lilac, he thought. And hyacinth. He remembered when that perfume alone, just the smell of it, could arouse him. He had missed her scent and her body. Now here they were – together again.

A fist of dread gripped his insides. A wave of self-hatred washed over him. He didn't know if he had the courage for what came next. Waiting, planning, wanting, he had fantasised about this night. She was so much a part of his mind that when he looked in the mirror, he could actually see her behind him, like a dark ash sparrow on his shoulder. But after all the anticipation, he hesitated at the threshold.

One last little game, he thought.

"Let's get it over with," the girl whispered, betraying irritation and impatience. He hated to hear any form of disapproval in her voice. But she was right – she was always waiting for his next move.

He felt wolfish eyes on him. They were alone, but even so, he felt as if strangers were hiding behind the skeletal birch trees, stalking him. He took a deep breath, he couldn't wait any more.

He dug his left hand into the pocket of his coat, letting his fingers caress the blade.

Time to play.

* * *

**If** only. If only he could get that close to her and not have to summon wisps of fantasy scenarios to satisfy his craving. They were never real, but she was. She was so real.

He had waited for her in the darkest section of the street, along the route he knew she would come. Cold pellets of sleet, blown horizontal, rained down on the car, gathering like snow on his windshield. He shivered, pulled his dark coat tighter around his shoulders, eying the mirrors.

He had arrived early, much earlier than was wise. Yet he had filled up the time gap with imaginations of intimacy with the girl so he didn't consider the time wasted. But the neighbourhood was quiet. His watch said ten o' clock.

Soon he thought.

But each minute passed with excruciating slowness. Any person would have squirmed as their bowels felt like water, though he wasn't exactly normal and with it came a firm grasp of self control or so he thought. It occurred to him for a horrifying moment that she might not come. All the waiting, all the sacrifice, would be for nothing. As cold as it was in the car a single tear of sweat rolled down the side of his face close to his earlobe. The longer he sat, counting the seconds in his head, the more his excitement grew. Would she come?

Then she appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, looking ethereal under the pale glow of a streetlight. He could have gasped for how beautiful she had turned in true form before him. His mouth turned so dry he couldn't swallow. As she glided closer, his eyes drank her in. She had full peachy lips and autumn hair falling into wet strands below her shoulders. The cold brought a flush to her cheeks, but not enough to colour the alabaster of her skin. A gold bracelet hung loosely on her right wrist. She had grown tall and took long, hurried strides. She wore a baby-pink turtleneck sweater over her long torso, its damn fabric clinging to her body. Her black jeans fitted snuggly.

He could almost feel himself inside her skin, keenly aware of her body: the taste of rain on her lips and the stinging and biting of the wind in her ears.

Her eyes found him. He knew that she couldn't see him inside the car, but he could still feel her stare anyway. And he knew those eyes, intense and green, like sea foam in which he wanted to plunge. She was coming straight towards him.

He knew what to do – stay in the car, wait, let her come to him. But the jabs of excitement into his pulsing heart was just too much. His eyes flicked up and down the street, checking to see if they were safe. Then he opened the car door and called to her, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"_Serenity_."

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**Now**, miles away, she was running. Trying to escape. He reached out, grabbing for her shirt. He snagged a fistful of her turtleneck, but she slapped his hand away. Slipping, he lunged again for her wrist, but his gloved fingers yanked on her bracelet instead.

She wriggled free, the bracelet tumbled away, and she galloped into the tall weeds.

He followed barely two steps behind her. But Serenity was like a gazelle, fleet and graceful. She widened the gap. He called her name, pleading with her to stop, and she must have heard him. Or maybe stumbled in the rutted ground. When he clawed out blindly with his hands, he felt the soft flesh of her shoulder, He squeezed hard and spun her around. Their bodies collided. He held her tight as she wriggled in his grasp, her chest heaving. He smelled her sweet breath.

She didn't say a word.

He hooked his right foot around her heel, trapping her. He tugged her shirt. The fabric bunched up in his hand , and he brought up his other fist, the one with the knife. With just the point of the blade, he sliced the shirt like butter, hearing the cloth tear and fray.

He put the point to her chest, right where the heart must be, somewhere deep inside. That innocent pure heart beating against the metal. She struggled, playing along. A dying game. He knew she wanted him to do it. This was never about him, he reminded himself. This was all about Serenity.

He pushed. A final gasp escaped her lips. Something red and wet ran on the blade. That was all it took, and then they were free.

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**Author's Notes**

**1)** This fiction is **not** about rape and is not intended to look like it, but merely how a psychotic an obsession can go even to the extremes of murder. It's also a little jab at the pairing 'screamshipping' for this was my first thought of how it would fan out.

**2)** First section of this piece if you hadn't picked up was Bakura fantasising about moments between himself and Serenity and how he wanted her to act.

**3)** In reality, she was never playing 'the game' or even wishing to play along. That was just how he saw it.


End file.
